Monday, March 31, 2008

Spring Break. . .

. . .has come to a close.

With limited vacation days, I wasn't able to trek out to Negril. Nor, any other tropic paradise. Instead, I worked. Feeling the need to break free of something, I decided to put my lifestyle on hold for seven days.

Where I spend the entire day conscious of every calorie, and a trip to the gym as my nightcap - I gave up. I would live for seven days in direct opposition to the manner in which I live. I consumed the most deplorable of foods in great quantity. Breakfast consisted of ham and nearly half a dozen eggs per serving. Lunch varied from the greasiest of downtown Chicago takeout, to the quite-lethal Seafood Sensation from Subway(a sandwich that Caitlin attests to be served "pre-chewed"). Dinner was a bucket of fried chicken, or five double chesseburgers with fries, or a medium deep dish pizza, or anything else that I ever found myself ever to crave, but with enough restraint and sensibility (not to mention dignity) to avoid. Not this week. No, sir. In the hour I'd normally be approaching the third mile on the treadmill, I was finishing off a bottle of wine, with discounted Easter candy as a chaser. Not having quite kicked the habit of smoking, I decided to keep it around, as it would perfectly accenutate what I was attempting to do.

The coda came this Sunday night. I sat in a vinyl booth at Pizza Hut. My only company was a ledger and the empty grease-lined pan that earlier held a large pepperoni. Four bottles of Miller Lite sat, finished. I was paralyzed. In just sitting, I could feel my pulse racing. A pair of invisible hands were pressing firmly against my chest. It felt like the slightest movement could trigger a heart attack. If I maintained this disregard for health and consumption, I could see myself dead in less than a year.

As I drove home, staying within a lane was difficult. The car drifted from the shoulder, to the center divide, back to the shoulder. I was unsure if the wheeze that accompanied each breath was from the food, or the smoking. Probably both.

I returned home, finishing off the remants of my week in sloth. Before I slept, I made sure to gather my running clothes. I folded them into the large black duffle, asking before pulling the zipper, "So, how was your week?"

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